What's Next
by B.A. Tyler
Summary: Post-war story. Sidney Freedman and a tale of two patients he treated in Korea. Vaguely refers to a storyline in "Goodbye, Farewell and Amen."


**What's Next**

Sidney Freedman stepped into the room and closed the heavy door behind him. The visiting room was stark, containing only a table with two chairs, one on either side. William Schmitt sat in one of them, his hands folded on the table as he watched Sidney's entrance in silence.

Sidney opened up the folder in his hands and flipped through the notes, even though he had every word memorized by now. He was buying time to calm his anxiety before talking with William. He didn't like prisons, never had, and he was having a visceral reaction to this room, with its unpleasant smells (sweat, urine, stale air) and harsh appearance. He took a deep breath, forced himself to relax a little, and finally sat down in the chair opposite the prisoner.

"Hello, William," he began, his voice gentle.

The young man nodded at him. "Hello, Dr. Freedman."

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess it has."

A former Army infantryman, William was a strapping, dark-haired 20-year-old with deep-set eyes, and while his complexion had always been on the pale side, now he looked even more ashen than usual. He sat there passively, patiently, waiting for Sidney to take the lead.

And so after a moment Sidney continued, "They've asked me to talk to you. Do you have any objection to that?"

"No, sir, not at all. I always liked our talks. You were always real good to me, sir."

Sidney glanced down at the folder, at the papers in front of him. He tapped them. "I read your confession. Do you remember what you told them?"

William nodded. "Sure."

"And it was the truth, I assume?"

"Yes."

Sidney leaned forward, tried his best to keep his expression neutral. "Why did you feel the need to kill that woman, William?"

The prisoner shrugged. "Like I told the police, something in me just snapped, sir. I mean, over there… in Korea? Over there, we were trained to kill. We were _expected _to kill."

"That was war, William, and you were expected to kill the _enemy_." Sidney could hear the edge in his own voice, and he consciously dialed back the emotion and volume. "The war ended six months ago. You're back home now, in the United States, in Pittsburgh. You're not a soldier anymore. Do you understand that?"

William didn't respond right away. He looked over Sidney's shoulder at the wall for a long moment. When finally he spoke again, he said, "I was a good soldier. I got two Purple Hearts, two Army Commendation Medals, and an Army Good Conduct Medal while I served over there, did you know that?"

Sidney nodded. "Yes, I remember."

"I was a good soldier," William repeated. He fell into silence again, lost in thought. Sidney waited him out. Sometimes it was best to just let the narrative come out at its own pace. He watched as William's eyes glazed over for a few seconds before he blinked and came back around. "We were all good soldiers over there, and then they sent us home, but they didn't tell us what was next."

"What was next…?"

"You fight and you kill and you do everything in your power to survive the whole damned experience, and then… what? What are you supposed to do when you get back home?"

The look on William's face was one of utter bewilderment, and Sidney's heart broke for the poor kid. What was next, indeed.

He gestured toward the folder in front of him. "So you killed Mrs. Keating?"

William's eyes locked on Sidney's. "Was that her name?"

"Yes. It was."

"Oh."

"According to your confession, you didn't know her at all… you'd never even seen her before. So why did you kill her?"

"Like I said to the police officer, something in me snapped. All of a sudden I felt like I wanted to kill someone." He paused, then added, "Like I used to do, back in Korea."

"It was war then, William. Now it's… well, now it's a crime. A serious crime. Do you understand that?"

"I guess so," William said, but Sidney doubted that he understood much of anything at this point. "But you know what? It's just as well, Dr. Freedman."

"Just as well? What do you mean?"

"I mean it's just as well they've got me locked up. I don't know how to live out there in the world anyway. I didn't know what I was supposed to do."

Letting out a breath, Sidney leaned back in his chair, at a loss. Back when he'd had sessions with William in Korea, after the kid's second injury had sent him into a temporary depression, he had marveled at William's resolve and resiliency… had admired his quick mind and laughed at his irreverent jokes.

This William was just a shell of that former fascinating, intelligent, motivated kid. Even worse, he was a murderer.

Sidney had never seen this coming.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Pierce residence!" the familiar voice boomed through the phone.<p>

"Hawkeye?" It was a rhetorical question and he didn't wait for a reply. "It's Sidney Freedman."

"Sidney!" The booming voice got even louder, and Sidney could just picture the man's beaming smile. "What a nice surprise! How the hell are ya?"

Sidney decided to be honest; after all, it was why he made the phone call in the first place. "Eh, not too great, actually. I had a tough day at the office."

Hawkeye turned his effervescence down a notch. "I'm sorry to hear that. Why don't you lie down and tell me all about it?"

"Thanks, but I don't feel like rehashing it right now. I just wanted to check in and see how my favorite former patient is doing."

"Aw, I'll bet you say that to all the nutcases. I'm doing fine, Sidney… better than fine. I'm doing great."

"Terrific—that's just what I wanted to hear." With his free hand, Sidney tossed the William Schmitt file into his briefcase; he didn't want to look at it anymore. He took a seat, propped up his feet, and looked out the hotel window at the beginnings of a bright orange sunset as he listened to Hawkeye's exuberant but somehow soothing voice.

"I feel like everything's falling into place, Sidney. I'm calmer now… contented. Dad and I have gotten into a comfortable routine at the office. We're working together much better than I would've imagined. But even though we're getting along so well, I've started to look for a house of my own, since it's about time I move out, don't you think?" He didn't stop long enough for Sidney to answer. "And wait—I haven't even mentioned the best news of all. Since the last time you came to visit, I've started seeing this woman. She's a teller at the bank. Dad introduced us. She's done wonders for my morale, if you know what I mean."

Sidney could picture Hawkeye bouncing his eyebrows a la Groucho Marx, and he felt a smile spread across his face. "Does she have a name, this wonder woman?"

"Rose," Hawkeye said, and Sidney could hear the adoration in his voice. Then, rather predictably, he riffed, "A rose by any other name… would still smell as heavenly."

Sidney laughed. "You sound very smitten. Maybe I can meet her the next time I come up."

"I'm counting on it, Sidney."

"Well, I have to agree with your diagnosis, doctor—it certainly does sound like you're doing great." Sidney hadn't heard a false note in Hawkeye's side of the conversation; the man was soaring and it was clear. Sidney could feel the tension of his day melting away a little. "I'm glad. You deserve it."

"Well, you helped me get here, Sidney. Don't doubt it for a second." There was a pause. "And I'm not just saying that because I sense you've had a professional setback today… I'm saying it because it's the truth."

For a moment, Sidney couldn't reply. When he found his voice, he said simply, "Thank you, Hawkeye."

He appreciated the man's words, he truly did. But the "professional setback," as Hawkeye called it, that had happened today was going to gnaw at his conscience for days and weeks and months anyway.

Why had one man overcome his wartime trauma while another had become broken? Chalk it up to the mystery of the human mind. The problem was, despite all his years of schooling and his practical experience in the field of psychiatry, Sidney really had no way of knowing if a patient was going to continue to recover or slide back into despair. It all felt like one big crapshoot.

So he listened as Hawkeye chattered on excitedly about his post-war life, and he gratefully accepted the victory. There were probably a lot more victories in his dossier than he realized. But the failures—and especially the case of William Schmitt, the decorated soldier turned cold-blooded murderer—cut wounds into his soul that were likely to last forever.

* * *

><p>(Author's Note: This fic was based on a recent news story. On December 19, 2011, Sgt. Dwight Smith, a decorated soldier who'd just returned home from the war in Afghanistan, randomly killed a 65-year-old woman who was out walking her dog in Wilmington, Delaware. When he was arrested, he told police that he just "clicked on" and felt like killing someone. He didn't know his victim; all she was doing was taking her dog for a walk. Dwight Smith's father later told the media: "The kid that I sent over there [to war] was not the man they sent back." Although I didn't know the victim, Marsha Lee, I wrote this story in her memory.)<p> 


End file.
